With the Gold Medal Around Our Necks
A massive Taegeukgi was draped over my back.
“South Korea! For the first time in the 136-year history of the Olympic Games, an Asian nation claims Olympic gold!”
Holding firmly to the edges of the national flag that a coach had slung across my shoulders, I sprinted across the pitch. All the exhaustion accumulated from fending off Brazil's ferocious attacks seemed to vanish without a trace, replaced by an intoxicating surge of vitality.
Tae-ha hyung went over to Cardoso, his club teammate at Atlético Madrid, to exchange a warm handshake. Head Coach Kim Shin-tae—having achieved not merely military exemption for his squad, but an outright Olympic gold medal—wept openly, waving to the roaring supporters in the stands. Most of our other players were still frozen in the exact spots where they had been standing when the final whistle blew, screaming in ecstatic disbelief.
Meanwhile, I began walking slowly past the Brazilian players who had pushed us to the absolute brink until moments ago. Having emerged victorious in several high-stakes finals by now, I felt as though I had finally learned how to savor this euphoria with a measure of calm.
“You played well.”
As I made my way toward the nearest stands, Nauzinho trudged over beside me and spoke. Hearing him speak in English rather than the Spanish I had heard in his press interviews felt rather unfamiliar.
Yet seeing our mud-caked socks and battered kits made me acutely realize just how fiercely we had clashed out there. Even if the color of our medals would differ, an unspoken kinship flickered between us.
“You were incredible too,” I replied. “Gave me quite a scare.”
It was anything but hollow flattery. Brazil's brace had practically been conjured out of thin air by Nauzinho alone. Had his stamina held out just a little longer, he would have sliced through our backline again and again.
“With talent like yours, why are you playing for... what was it, Luton City?”
“Luton Town.”
“Ah, right. Luton Town. Why stay there? Why not come to Real Madrid?”
Nauzinho covered his mouth with one hand so none of the roving cameras could catch his words or read his lips, murmuring quietly.
“Right now we don't even have a locked-in striker. Nailing down a starting spot wouldn't be out of reach for you.”
“Ha. I appreciate the thought, even if you're just being polite.”
I took his words as generous praise. Real Madrid's star striker had retired the previous season, so competition for a starting berth might indeed be more manageable. But realistically speaking, no matter how sensational a run of form I had shown, would they truly sign a player straight out of the Championship?
Not that I have any intention of going anyway.
While I would need to consult Lee Yeon, it had taken us an immense effort just to establish ourselves in England. Uprooting everything to plunge into Spain without speaking a word of the language would be an unnecessary gamble. I wanted to play football, not rack my brain over language barriers and culture shock.
“It's a pity we won't meet in the Champions League,” he chuckled. “I won't even get a chance at payback.”
...Now that definitely sounded like a sly dig.
“Even if it won't happen next season, you'll definitely see me the year after. Just wait.”
“Right. I'll be waiting.”
Trading our customary pleasantries—or rather, mild barbs—we exchanged jerseys. A nearby broadcast camera caught every frame of the shirt swap.
“Ah, the two aces of South Korea and Brazil, the very men who carried their nations to this grand final, are exchanging shirts!”
“Fierce as the battle was, now that the final whistle has blown, this pitch is overflowing with mutual respect. Both players have given everything they had.”
I tucked his jersey loosely into the waistband of my shorts and clapped my hands high above my head, urging the crowd on.
“Dae~han~min~guk!”
“Han! Han! Han! Han! Han!”
Whenever I felt the sheer weight of that adoration washing over me, I felt I could finally understand why Lee Yeon was so obsessed with flamboyant celebrations.
Only after completing a full lap along the stands did I head back toward the center circle, where our squad was gathered. A horde of photojournalists clicked their shutters relentlessly in front of the group centered around Tae-ha hyung and Coach Kim. A few of our players had even retrieved their smartphones, either snapping photos or broadcasting live streams.
Kim Ilwon, irrepressible and carefree as ever, pointed his livestream camera right in my face, tossing out trivial questions his viewers might wonder about.
“How does it feel to be a champion?”
“Great.”
“Come on, give us something a bit more specific.”
“Really, really great.”
“...Look at this bastard playing coy.”
Clearly unimpressed with my answer, he reached over and thoroughly ruffled my hair into a bird's nest.
“Alright, final question: who do you miss the most right now?”
“Uh... no comment.”
I had nearly blurted out Adelia's name before catching myself at the very last second. But unable to shake off Kim Ilwon's relentless grilling over my hesitation, I simply turned on my heel and bolted.
“Alright, bring it in, everyone.”
Having finished swapping kits with Cardoso, Tae-ha hyung called the squad together. Knowing full well what Tae-ha hyung had in mind, the players encircled Coach Kim before he could even think of escaping.
“Not twice! Not twice, please!”
“Just stay still, Boss, and you'll be fine.”
“Aaaaagh!”
Tossed into the air once again just as he had been after the semifinal, Coach Kim alternated between weeping and laughing every time he soared into the sky. Naturally, I lent a pair of hands to the effort. Disliking being on the receiving end was no reason to pass up the joy of watching someone else go through it.
While we retreated to the locker room to catch our breath and tidy ourselves up, three elongated podiums were set up on the pitch. Standing in the tunnel, the sight of the red carpet and the podiums—stretching so far we couldn't even take them all in from the entrance—left quite an impression.
Beside South Korea and Brazil, the Argentine squad was also gathered in the tunnel, having emerged victorious in the bronze medal match held at another stadium. A quick check in the dressing room confirmed Argentina had edged out Australia 2–1 to claim third place. Considering Australia had been outmatched in nearly every department aside from home advantage, it was hardly an upset.
“Now, the athletes begin making their way back onto the pitch.”
“First to emerge is the team that secured third place at the Brisbane Olympics: Argentina.”
Following the staff's cue, the Argentine squad marched out in single file. Having concluded their tournament on a victorious note, their expressions showed little trace of sorrow.
“Next is Brazil. Having proven why they are hailed as a football superpower by dismantling powerhouse after powerhouse throughout the tournament, Brazil enters the arena.”
Having managed to collect their emotions inside the dressing room, the Brazilian players marched out behind their most senior veteran, Cardoso, carrying themselves with far more dignity than when they had first trudged off the pitch.
And now.
It was our turn.
“Throughout the long annals of the Olympic Games, no Asian nation has ever stood atop the podium in men's football.”
“And now, for the first time in Olympic history, the Republic of Korea turns a brand-new page.”
A deafening wall of cheers and roars, incomparable to the reception given to Brazil or Argentina, battered our ears.
“Did we... did we really win the whole damn thing?”
“Please turn off that livestream already...”
“I'm keeping it on until the medal is around my neck!”
“...Suit yourself.”
Even marching in a formal line, the squad couldn't stop chattering—a sight that was quintessentially our national team.
“All the players have now taken their places on the podium.”
“Standing proudly right in the center, clad in their crimson kits, are the players of South Korea... It truly feels unbelievable.”
“A moment of pure, unadulterated emotion.”
Looking around, a small table stood beside each of the three tiers, laden with medals and yellow bouquets—a sight that commanded the undivided attention of every athlete.
“Panter Rudig, President of FIFA, alongside Connor Metcalf, director of football operations for the Brisbane Olympics, step forward to present the medals and bouquets to the athletes.”
“The flower presented to the medalists is Australia's national floral emblem, the golden wattle. Its delicate golden yellow creates a striking harmony with the gold medals.”
The dignitaries began to move. Taking the medals and bouquets arranged on decorative trays from the tables, they presented them to the players one by one. With all members of each squad standing upon the three tiers, the officials shuttled back and forth repeatedly. Because the presentation began from the left, Brazil received their silver medals first, followed by South Korea at the center.
“Your performance in every single match was truly magnificent,” the FIFA President commended, placing the gold medal around my neck.
“Thank you very much.”
Though it possessed no light of its own, the gold medal caught the stadium floodlights, shimmering with an allure that held everyone spellbound.
“Should I bite it?”
“You'll leave teeth marks. Besides, it's just gold-plated.”
“Doesn't having teeth marks make it even more unique?”
“.......”
It seemed the grueling physical exertion had caused a temporary drop in a few players' intellectual faculties.
Regardless of their antics, the ceremony proceeded smoothly, continuing until the bronze-winning Argentines had all received their medals.
“And now, the national flags of the three countries are being raised. To the left is Brazil; in the center, South Korea; and to the right, Argentina.”
“The national anthem of the Republic of Korea echoes across Brisbane Stadium here in Australia!”
Our national anthem, the song of Olympic champions, swelled across the arena. Everyone placed their hand over their heart, singing every verse at the very top of their lungs.
And the moment the final chord faded:
We locked hands together and thrust our arms skyward.
“The champions of men's football at the 2032 Brisbane Olympic Games: the Republic of Korea!”
Though no trophy was awarded, the gold medals gleaming around our necks were more than enough. Camera flashes erupted in an unbroken storm.
Loud enough to shatter the podium.
Loud enough to tear down the stadium.
Players and supporters alike roared in unison with every ounce of breath in their lungs.
Nothing remained within the arena except boundless, triumphant joy.